Chapter Fourteen

Perhaps there are some things we Keepers were never intended to understand. Have we become so arrogant, so self-assured, that we have forgotten that there are places beyond our library walls which do not abide by the rules we believe to be self-evident?

But to admit that we do not understand everything—that in fact we are ignorant of a great many patterns of fate—would that not be the end of us, the Keepers? To introduce self-doubt, because of two young girls who we cannot seem to comprehend within our grasp of the universe…would that not unravel us?

Perhaps it is not that we are woven tightly, perfectly, but that we bear knots within our weave to hide our errors. Perhaps the knots need to come undone.

--Keeper Artemus

Journal Entry

The smoggy dome of the sky over the city blushed a deep rose and cast a warm glaze over the cool, wet streets. In a shadowed patch of cobblestone road in Old Quarter, a sewer cover creaked open and three figures emerged. The one in front carried a bulky sack over her shoulder, while the other two hurried behind her. The streets were still quiet with sleep, and their shuffling footsteps were not noticed.

The two girls and the lad slipped into the musty shadows of an abandoned building a little ways down the street, and climbed the familiar stairs. Megan's hand ran along the banister where some nights ago—however long it was—another cold, slender hand had rested briefly.

"Home again, home again," Daphne whispered, close behind. "I hope Basso and Sherry are-"

The two stepped through the door at the end of the hallway, and the room exploded in motion. A flash of knives, gritting teeth, a gasp, and a heavy crash—both Megan and Daphne found themselves tackled to the floor with blades at their throats. Basso's dark face hovered over Daphne, while Sherry's knee pressed into Megan's stomach. Otto stood at the door, his own knife in hand as his surly eyes darted from the lock pick to the barmaid.

"Oh, it's you!" Basso said, his grimace disappearing. He rose quickly and gave Daphne a hand up. "Sorry about that. We were hoping you would come back here, but we thought the Keepers might as well."

"They're bound to, now," Megan grunted. Sherry's sneer had melted—slightly—but she was slow to take her knee off Megan's abdomen. When at last the barmaid stood up and brush her hair back over her shoulders with a bored sigh, her captive got to her own feet with a brief, darting glare in her direction.

"Otto, it's all right," Daphne said when she caught the flicker of his blade twirling, ready, in his hands. "These are our friends." She introduced Basso and Sherry by name, quickly, but the boy's eyes stayed suspicious as he drifted over to Megan's side.

"Some friends," he muttered. "Do all thieves greet each other this way?"

The barmaid scoffed. "I'm no thief."

Megan smirked, but refrained from replying. Instead, she spoke to the group. "We need to get out of here immediately. The Keepers will come after us again, and this time, I'd like us to be safely away."

Sherry looked to Daphne. "What do you think we should do?" she asked.

Daphne lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean, what should we do? Megan just said we should get out of here, and that sounds about right to me. We knocked out two Keepers, stole an important document, and broke some Keeper property, so I have no doubts they'll be coming back around here sooner rather than later."

The barmaid nodded her agreement and then led the way toward the door. "You heard what Daphne said, let's go. We can talk about details later."

Megan and Daphne exchanged glances, and proceeded to follow Sherry out. Basso took up the rear, until Otto insisted on taking that position himself. The tenacity of the kid made the lock pick fight back a grin and acquiesce.

The group picked their way through side streets and back alleys, making sure to avoid as many of the emerging people as possible. Little shops were opening their doors, and early customers strolled down the streets, hoping to beat the hot, afternoon crowds. Pick pockets and street scamps scuttled about, searching the nooks and crannies of the cobblestones for dropped coins or other valuables, while their sharp beady eyes located potential targets. The crowdless street was not ideal for pickpocket work, but the little professionals were not idle during the morning hours, just sneakier.

It was only the barmaid's searing glare and Otto's twirling knife that kept the street scamps back at a safe distance from the group, uncertain of what to expect from the motley crew.

Sherry led the group to a dive called Pagan's Pervy Pleasure down by the docks, and by the time they sat down, each and every member of the group still had all his or her pocket change. Sherry flagged down a hard, burly serving wench and ordered a round of whatever the cheapest thing on the menu might be, and the group hunkered down in the booth.

Basso started to ask a question, but he stopped before getting more than the first half of a word out and clamped his teeth shut around it. Instead, he asked, "What happened at the Compound?"

"Jenivere is fine," Megan said quietly, "as far as we know. The Keepers moved her somewhere else for birthing." She reached into the sack of goods she had crammed between herself and Otto, and pulled out the Keeper's journal. "We only had time to find out where the Eye is located, but I'll bet Artemus wrote down where they moved Jenivere, too." She passed the book to Basso, who fervently bent over the pages, searching for his wife's name.

Sherry grasped Daphne's arm. "They hurt you, didn't they?"

"A little," Daphne replied. "But we got through it. What's important now is getting that idiot Raife out of trouble again."

Sherry sat back hard and crossed her arms. "Again? What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into this time?"

"Pagan trouble," Megan said, leaning forward. As she explained the details of what they knew—the Pagan's offer to Garrett, the Eye, and the dead Keeper—Basso, Otto, and Sherry (though she refused to look at Megan as she spoke) listened intently.

When she finished, Basso shook his head and let out a low whistle. "That's bad news for him, I'm afraid," the lock pick said. "Keeper Enforcers are not like normal assassins. Remember, Garrett himself was destined to be one of them way back when, and had he become one, he would have been far more dangerous than he is even now."

Daphne cast Megan a glare at the mention of the Master Thief's name, and Megan flushed. "Don't give me that," she growled. "We don't need him or his help."

"What's this?" Basso asked.

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Megan decided to go on an anger rampage while we were locked up with the Keepers. Garrett was there, and she decided to pull out some choice words she knew would drive him into a rage. I'm pretty sure, considering the bruise, he probably isn't interested in giving us any help."

The lock pick squinted at Megan's face, but even in the dim light of the pub, the developing bruise was obvious. "Did he do that to you?" he whispered, eyebrows raised.

Megan kneaded her hands in her lap and looked down, ashamed. In the pocket of her shirt, she could feel the stiff crinkle of paper. Her face burned under both the lock pick's concerned gaze, and Sherry's almost gleeful glare. Otto, beside her, bristled. "I deserved it," she muttered. "I shouldn't have said anything, but I let my temper get away from me. It's just that- He said he would have let you hang at Pavelock! And he called you incompetent! I couldn't let him be that cruel without someone saying something about it!"

Basso sighed and leaned back. "He wouldn't have let me hang," he said, and his voice carried such a quiet vote of confidence that Megan's face flushed again and she turned her glare on him.

"I heard what he said," she snapped. "Are you saying I'm a liar?"

"No, I'm not," the lock pick replied gently. "It's just that… Garrett is a hard person to read. Especially around Keepers. His loyalties and opinions are not out in the open for everyone to see. He guards them like he guards his life. It may have seemed to you, because you don't know him, that he was being cold and cruel, but I've known Garrett since we were kids. He would never have let me hang, if he had known."

Megan shook her head. "I do know him. I probably know him better than you do, and when I looked up at him and saw the look in his eyes when he practically said you should have died-!" She glared down at her hands.

The lock pick sighed again and looked away as the cheapest thing on the menu— the Trickster's Tit, a mean, brackish drink with steam rising from the lip of the cups —arrived at the table.

After some minutes of uncomfortable silence, besides a few hollow gags following sips of the drink, Basso frowned and leaned forward. "So what's the plan?"

"We discussed this on the way over," Daphne said. "Megan and I are going after Raife. He's apparently out on Northermeed Island, which is where the Eye is being kept. Sherry, we need you to find Gus. We can't leave him out on the streets, someone might find him, and who knows what will happen then."

The barmaid let out a squawk of indignation. "You're ditching me?" she said, her face turning red. "After all I've done for you, you're sending me on a happy little errand to fetch that crazy machine? Why not send the squirt?" She lifted her chin at Otto.

"Gus knows you, and he'll listen to you."

"How do you know?" the barmaid muttered, unconvinced.

"We need you to do this, Sherry," Megan said as calmly as she could, but she couldn't quite keep the chill of irritation out of her voice. "When we've got Hammers, Pagans, Keepers, and Enforcers out to get us, having a giant cannon on wheels will be very, very handy."

"Fine." Sherry crossed her arms and glared back. "But I'm doing this for Daphne, not doing for you."

Megan rolled her eyes and leaned back, dropping the potential fight.

Otto leaned forward eagerly. "What about me?"

"I've been thinking about it," Megan said, "and I know we agreed earlier to let you come to Northermeed with us, but I just don't think it's a good idea. We'll be doing everything we can to watch our own backs; we can't promise we'll be able to keep you safe. It would be best if you go with Basso."

"Wait, where am I going?" The lock pick frowned. "I assumed I would join the two of you in stopping Raife from killing himself."

Megan shook her head. "No, you need to be with Jenivere. I didn't break you out of jail just to be killed by Hammers. I promised I would get you back to her, and I plan to be true to my word."

The lock pick at first scowled, but then sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Are you sure you won't need the backup? Hammers are a hard lot, and there are likely to be some situations where you'll need an extra knife hand."

An old memory of enormous swinging mallets and armored guards rushing toward her, the instinctual fear in the pit of her stomach as she stared down what she knew would send her back to the last place she saved in the game—Megan shook her head. "I'm sure we'll be all right. We've handled Hammers before."

"And been killed by them," Daphne whispered softly with a wry smirk. Only Megan heard, and she fought back the urge to chuckle nervously herself.

"I want to go with you," Otto said, scowling. "I could be that extra knife hand you need! I could make glyphs for you! Think about that!"

"And you could be a corpse we'd have to lug home to your mother, too," Megan snapped. "You said when we left the Compound that you were going to listen to me when I ordered you to do something. Are you going to keep your word on that, or are we going to have to bring you back to the Keepers?"

The kid squinted at her and smirked. "You can't do that. The Keepers will catch you again, too, if you went back there."

"I don't care. Either you listen to me now, or I tell Basso to knock you out cold and carry you out of here like a baby. Do you want that?"

"You know, Meg," Daphne said, plucking at Megan's sleeve, "I'll bet having some glyphs on our side would be really handy."

Megan frowned, trying not to show her reflexive agreement. Having even a few simple glyphs to use for getting in and getting out undetected, locking and unlocking doors, passing through walls, even silencing a particular thief who would probably not be thrilled about being told what not to do…

With a sigh, she nodded her head. "All right, Otto. You can come with us."

The boy grinned wide. "This is going to be awesome."

"It's not a game, all right?" Megan sharpened her voice again. "We could all die there. I don't want any off-the-wall heroics, and by that I mean anything you think your mother would disapprove of, got it?"

Otto scowled again. "Are you going to be like this the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he sighed and crossed his arms.

"Well, I think we've got everything settled then," Megan said.

She stood up, as did Daphne, and the group begrudgingly followed suit. As they bumped into each other and finally got out of the tight booth, Megan saw Basso slip a folded sheet of paper into his shirt. Her hand went to her own hidden sheet, and found it missing.

The lock pick smiled when she caught his eye and he stepped up close beside her to murmur, "Just in case I run into the Master Thief. You don't give him enough credit."

"We'll just see about that," she grumbled back.

The group stepped out into the sunlight and slipped around behind the dive to the alley behind it. Here, they said their goodbyes.

Megan hugged Basso tightly. "Thank you so much," she said. "You've been so kind to me and Daphne and everyone. Take care of yourself, all right?"

The lock pick laughed and patted her on the back. "Fair enough," he replied. "And be gentle on Raife when you meet up with him. Your opinion means more to him than you think it does."

Megan's cheeks burned, and the lock pick's eyes twinkled with good humor. "Watch your back when you're with the Hammers," he added. "They won't pull their punches for a girl."

With a chuckle, Megan rubbed her bruising cheek. "It won't be the first time."

"If you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you," Sherry said, releasing Daphne from her hard embrace. "I mean it. I'll find your grave and dance on it, got that?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Daphne replied, but her tone was warm. "Say hi to Gus for me, and let him know I'll be back for him soon."

The barmaid nodded. "How will we meet up again?"

"Two nights from now, if we've made it out of Northermeed alive, we'll meet you right back here." Daphne pursed her lips. "Right here."

"All right," Sherry said, and then with only a quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped out into the street and disappeared into the crowd.

"I guess that's my cue, as well," Basso said. "Take care of yourselves, all right? Don't rush anything. Think it through. You're both smart girls, and you'll need every ounce of wit you've got to get through that place. I'll do whatever I can to help…from a distance," he added when he saw Megan start to frown.

With a last glance at both girls, he tipped an invisible hat to them and, with a wave, stepped out among the crowd and disappeared as well.

Otto, Megan and Daphne exchanged looks. "Well," Megan said. "I guess we better find a boat going out to Northermeed."

Daphne smirked. "Raife better appreciate all the trouble we're going through for him."

"From what I know of him," Otto said, "I doubt it."

"So do I, kid," Megan replied, turning him toward the street. "But it doesn't matter if he does or not. Let's find that boat."

All night, after slipping into the cathedral, Raife had searched high and low for an entrance to the secret passages and found nothing. Apparently, every last drop of luck he had at his disposal had been used in escaping almost certain death in the tide-filled caves. He had ended up in the grand sanctuary, where the dissolving pagan map bore a symbol looking like the Eye, but again—he found nothing. Frustrated and exhausted by all the dead ends, he soothed his ego slightly by swiping the pair of golden candlesticks from the pulpit. The pale peach light of dawn, flooding past the looming form of a giant hammer, cast a menacing shadow across the center of the room and made the stonework along the sides blush. The thief was in no mood to linger the majestic glow of the sanctuary, but the sound of voices fast approaching sent him into the shadow of the monolithic hammer. He crouched there, relatively calm, and waited impatiently for the voices to move on.

They did not.

In fact, as they grew closer, he heard others approaching behind them, heard mallets laid gently beneath the pews, heard armor shift as seats were taken, heard the murmured conversation swell as more Hammerites joined their brothers. He peeked out, warily, and saw what he dreaded: they were preparing for a service.

"Great," he muttered, unafraid of being overheard. The mass of voices drowned out his voice even to his own ears. "Fought my way into this place for a sermon."

He slumped down and prepared himself for a long wait, leaning his head back on the base of the hammer. He turned the two candlesticks over in his hands, and for the first time wondered what the Hammers would do when they noticed them missing. Again, he peeked around the corner at the filling sanctuary. Forty, maybe sixty armed Hammerites. A handful of novices and priests. He slouched back behind the statue, feeling small and easy to crush to death.

It was an eternity until at last the voices died down and he could hear footsteps approaching his hiding place. The footfall, softened by whispering robes, turned just before he thought they would surely lead right to him, and he heard the whole assembly rise to their feet.

"Mine Brethren," a sturdy, biting voice called over the heads of the worshippers. "Let us use the tools of song our Builder hath bestowed upon us, that we may praise Him."

Raife rolled his eyes as the voices of the assembly grew in strength and finally belted out some age old hymn he only recognized because nearly all the Builder hymns sounded the same. Praises for punishment; hefting, hewing, charring, maiming; thanks to the Builder; the hammer is great—on and on. The thief in hiding scoffed and regretted his temporary entrapment. It was bad enough to be stuck in one place when there was still so much to do; it was torture to listen to this overly-devoted parroting.

The day the Builder builds me a fortune is the day I'll think about thanking him for anything, but until that happens, he better just be glad I don't gut this whole place of its unearned riches.

When at last the endless song droned to a close and the assembly resumed their seats, the High Priest opened one of their dry, dusty tomes and recited an age's worth of verses. More of the same: smelting, sanding, grinding, shaping, Praise to the Builder! It was only the thump of the tome closing and the next words the High Priest said that kept the thief from dozing off.

"Mine Brethren," the High Priest declared, and the thief visualized him spreading his arms wide in front of all those eager Hammerite faces, "I am certain several of thee noticed the bypassing of the ceremonial candle lighting at the beginning of this dawn service." There were several murmurs of acknowledgement from the crowd. Raife bristled and his stomach tightened. "Our candlesticks hath been misplaced, but do not concern thyselves. Brother Mendel shalt locate the novice who was in charge of their upkeep. But I cometh to an important subject, which hath often been overlooked by our Brethren here and upon distant shores. We, the apprentices of the Builder, the wood to be sculpted in his hands, the iron to be smelted—all too often, we forget ourselves in the glitter of this life, in the materials of wealth, and forsaketh our sturdy wood and metal roots."

The thief sighed—quietly now, for there was no sound to cover him—and settled in for the sermon, which turned out to be on the evils of gold and gems. Like they chose it just for me, he thought with a wry smile.

"Brethren, guild thine hearts not with gold from the Earth, for it is worthless. Any man in this life can decorate himself with this; no hand need craft it with more than gentle taps. It is malleable in any hand, relenting to any order. It giveth itself up to any twist and bend. Be not like contorting gold, for within it lies no strength!"

No strength but power, you old fool.

"Do not give thyselves up like the gems of the Earth, masquerading as things of beauty. What soul hath these? What depth of craftsmanship doeth it require to bringeth out the elegance of these things? None. Jewel-smiths exist in every city, in every nation. What about their craft maketh them content? The wealth selling their cheap creations brings them?"

That would make me content.

"Brethren, I discuss this not to make thee hate these things. They are of the Earth, and they shalt be used for the Builder's glory. But mould not thy soul from them. Mould thy soul from the nobler, simpler materials. Wood." There was a sigh of agreement. "Iron." Another sigh, accompanied undoubtedly by smiles. "Stone." The assembly shifted with joy at the words, and the thief crossed his arms, bored. "These art the materials that shalt strengthen thy soul! These are the materials that shalt draw out of thee the skills and talents thou needest to survive in this gold-gilded world! Silver and gold, gems and jewels—our treasury doth overflow. We hath seen an abundance of donation, and it is a Blessing. Let us use these riches to furnish our poorer Brethren with Wood. With Iron. And with Stone."

The assembly erupted, and a new hymn began in strength. The thief lay back against the monolithic hammer and imagined what the overflowing treasuries must look like. The tips of his gloved fingers tingled at the thought of all that wealth within his grasp.

The chorus ended, and the thief came back to his senses at the grating sound of mallets being hefted from the stone floor as the assembly broke up to go about their daily business. Just beyond his hiding place, he could hear the High Priest speaking with one of the Hammerites, and decided to listen in.

"I condone thy enthusiasm, Brother Torus. I shalt speak with the priests, but I have no doubts they shalt agree with thy suggestion. I hath been in close contact with Brother Nathem from St. Koren, and he hast often mentioned their desire to replace those beams. In examining the sketches of the building, I hath estimated the cost of replacing the wooden beams at about seven thousand gold pieces. Here-" The thief heard the hiss of robes at the High Priest removed something from his person. "-taketh this key. It shalt unlock the vault in my quarters where the key to the treasuries is located. It is the silver key on the shelf beside my personal seal. That key shalt admit thee to the treasuries where Brother Thompson will collect the funds for thee."

The Hammerite—Torus—thanked the High Priest earnestly and the thief listened to him walk off to the left, as the priest removed himself from the sanctuary via the central aisle. When at last the sanctuary was quiet again, Raife rose to his feet.

"Well," he said softly, "It seems my luck might just be turning around." The old priest likely had information about the location of the Eye somewhere, and if nothing else, he was bound to gain access to the treasuries, which would do a great deal to soften his mood about this mission. The thief smiled and rubbed his hands together. Then, quietly as a shadow himself, he slipped out of the sanctuary, and headed after the unsuspecting Brother Torus.